Truth is the Critic
by aragonite
Summary: As Watson promised, A STUDY IN SCARLET made it in print. Not that it pleased Scotland Yard...Characters: Most of Scotland Yard
1. Chapter 1

A Study in Brown

Truth is the Critic

When the first chapter of _A Study in Scarlet_ came out, the _Strand_ not only sold most of its copies out in record time, it raised the flag over Scotland Yard. Lestrade, for his part, felt an all-too-familiar sinking sensation settle in his intestines as he forced himself to read through each excruciating paragraph.

"I would enjoy this a great deal more, if Gregson hadn't tipped me off about what was coming." He muttered under his breath. The other's words had been haunting him since early morning. '"Sallow and rat-faced."' Gregson had sneered. '"Well at least we know Watson's pen can peg a man accurately."'

Constable Briggs, transferred on Baynes' request, gave a wry look as he picked up a thin avalanche of blank warrants off the floor. "He sure'nuff knows how to write about London, though. When I brought my Anna here, she cried a fortnight."

Lestrade was briefly distracted from his looming tragedy by a stranger one. "That's terrible, Briggs. Is she any better?"

"Oh, yes sir." Briggs was pleased to report. "She only cries on Easter and Christmas."

"Oh." Lestrade stared at the young man, slowly realizing the boy was telling the truth. He wondered if Christmas included all twelve excruciating days of it in the Briggs household. It might explain why he never grumbled to be on duty on any of the major holidays... Still, it was better than nonstop crying every day, wasn't it?

Scotland Yard settled in with its back to the wind, facing each installment with a mixture of relief and anticipation. Lestrade knew in his bones that in the case of Bradstreet, Hopkins, Athelney-Jones, MacDonald, Youghal and Baynes the serial was being met with unholy and hyena-like glee. More than once the unmistakable sounds of muffled guffaws drifted up from the stairwells. He had a terrible foreboding that a great deal of those _Strand_ issues were being bought up by his comrades in arms.

As deeply annoyed as Lestrade was about the whole mess, he had to admit Watson spared no one, not even himself. Reading Watson's first, stubbornly incredulous reaction to Holmes' deductive abilities was like reading his own first experience—but, mercifully, Holmes hadn't shredded _him_ apart as badly as he'd done the poor doctor. That in itself was worth the price of the rag.

"I think we needs file that one." Bradstreet offered. Of all the others, he was friendliest to Lestrade; they had far too little in common to be in competition. They didn't even look anything alike; Bradstreet's cubic capacity was an advantage in the rougher sides of London he favored—no one _ever_ thought of making fun of his peaked cap or Froggy style of dress. "We should make the reading of it mandatory to the new'uns coming in."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Lestrade protested. "Tradition was good enough for us, wasn't it? Send the poor wretches off all unknowing to their fates, just as we were done ourselves."

"Cruel, sir. Cruel…"

"I hope that quack knows a good solicitor." Gregson stamped past. "I'll have him in court, by God. If he thinks he saw it bad in Afghanistan, I'll give him something to limp about!" Instead of his usual pause to gloat about his rival's newfound kinship with rodents, Gregson had clearly discovered the part Lestrade had just been snickering on.

"I agree." Lestrade said blandly. "Your hands are hardly _fat_, Tobias. Perhaps a little on the Euclidian Square side…and the plumpness of your musculature could bring about a false impression…"

Gregson whirled on him. "By God, he's got his nerve! I don't care if he's a veteran or not! This was uncalled for!"

"On the contrary." Lestrade said icily. "We don't like each other, Gregson—there's no point in pretending otherwise. But we could at least be civil and respect each other's barriers in the line of duty." Lestrade slapped the newsprint down on the rail and folded his arms across his chest. "And if you think we have it rough, for God's sake, why don't you actually read these accounts and see how _Holmes_ is portrayed."

Possibly Gregson was just too astonished to pick Lestrade up and toss him out the nearest window. Or Bradstreet's looming presence had something to do with it too. Lestrade made a mental note that once he got home, to write on his calendar the historic occasion of cutting his rival adrift: (_Have witnessed phenomena referred to as 'speechless'_).

"Don't you even care?" Gregson finally demanded.

"Yes I very much _do_ care, thank you. But can you prove Dr. Watson is spreading falsehood?" Lestrade tapped the _Strand_ with his fingertips. "And again, I submit to you, as if we were in court. Who would you rather be in this particular story, Inspector—yourself, or Sherlock Holmes?"

Gregson's silence was awkward. He was not accustomed to being faced with a question that required _that_ kind of thought.

Lestrade was inwardly sweating. _He_ was not accustomed to being on the obverse of Gregson's attitude. Gregson was smarter than Lestrade by far—it was common knowledge and Gregson never let him forget it. But Lestrade's willingness to get out and plod through the streets had gotten him to Gregson's level. The bobbies called him "The Concrete and Clay Inspector" for good reason, and for the most part, Lestrade was satisfied with his reputation at the Yard.

The worst part of his job was that he had to know his own limits better than his rivals. Gregson could always be counted on to throw some intellectual problem at him and make him look like a fool, just to get even with a half-point Lestrade had scored on him a week ago. Ergo, Lestrade had learned early on it was best to take his lumps and move on before the indignities could gather interest. He took it from Gregson, but damned if he would take it from that amateur Holmes.

"Read it all through, sirs." Bradstreet said quietly. "The doctor tells the truth. And he _certainly_ told the truth in that the two of you could band together in a common cause. Now that's something none of us ever thought'd happen." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "The case needed Mr. Holmes, that's true, but when the two of you combined your talents, we had the man inside twenty-four hours."

Talents? Bradstreet meant well, but that was a _sad_ choice of a word. Gregson would never apply 'talent' to Lestrade. Lestrade decided he had no choice but to take his slim lead and finish with it.

"Inspector, people are asking us to our faces how we feel about this serial. We can lie, or we can tell them the truth. _Or_ we can completely save our faces and take the third method: We can say the serial is being done with our complete permission."

"You can_not_ possibly be serious!" Gregson roared. "After the way he wrote about us?"

_**Now**__ it's __**us**__?_ Lestrade gritted his teeth. "We cannot stop Dr. Watson from writing unless he prints an utter falsehood. Now, can you find one?"

Gregson's face was dark as iris, but he shook his head. "He shouldn't write about us in such a disrespectful manner."

"Disrespectful? Tobias Gregson, I submit to you _this is nothing_. When was the last time you saw a print of us that had both the good and bad together? That's going to give Watson's pen even more credulity. And if I'm to believe my favorite street-vendors, it's made us look a bit more human to their eyes. Do you _not_ remember the time _Punch_ wrote us all up and made us look to a man like universal damned lobotomics?"

Gregson and Bradstreet both to a man, flinched. _Punch_ had written about the Yard almost three years ago, but the memory still lingered, like a septic infection. Bradstreet once confessed the caricatures still flashed in front of his eyelids at night when he was feeling his most vulnerable. No one in the Yard had bought a subscription or used the paper for more than a game of darts since. Well, there was young Briggs, who insisted they were the thing for lining the bottom of his rabbit cages…

"_Punch_ also accused us of being selfish, glory-hunting seekers who refused to work together. Now it's true we do work together, but we only do it when we have to. I for one am perfectly content with you working on your side and I to mine. But if the Yard gives everyone the impression that we know about Dr. Watson's writings, and aren't upset…it will go better for our reputations in the long run."

It was the worst example of eating crow Lestrade had ever put himself through, worse than the time the Old Man dressed him down (at a healthy distance) in front of the whole Yard for falling into an open sewer while chasing a felon impersonating a dairy inspector. (And he hoped Gregson, who had been the first to congratulate him for that escapade in brilliant alliteration, wasn't thinking of that right now.)1

Gregson wouldn't leave voluntarily without a verbal evisceration, and Lestrade couldn't handle that on top of all the bitter honesty he'd just spewed. Besides, it was the end of the day. He opted for a dramatic exit. Three more days, and he'd be on holiday. He could last that long.

1 "Lestrade Leapingly Loses Malignant Mad Milkman, Matthew Morrisy by Sadly Slipping into Stinking Sewage off Sanders Street."


	2. Chapter 2

Truth is the Critic, Part Two

Dinner and a Mood

One mile of concrete and clay later, and Inspector Lestrade had promoted his mood over _A Study in Scarlet_ from "reigned-in furious" to "dully annoyed". Mothers and clergy who counseled to turn the other cheek either had thick cheeks or thicker beards. _A Study in Scarlet_ simply rankled with him because it cut too close to the bone.

Somehow it made things worse that the author was no more than _twenty-four_ at the time, and the central character was an amateur who _two years younger_. Lestrade was fully sympathetic to people who complained of having younger, smarter siblings in a household. If London was the four-million-person-household, then Sherlock Holmes was surely the most infuriatingly precocious scion of the family.

Lestrade did _not_ like defending that work of the written word to Gregson. It still made him slightly nauseous to recollect the arguing points. On the other hand, no one could accuse him of trying to coddle up to the press now! That (so far) was Lestrade's one sunbeam in the cloud.

But Bradstreet was right about the thing. And since Lestrade could afford to be wholly honest with himself in the privacy of his own mind, there was something about Watson that still impressed him. If Watson was telling the truth, he'd been practicing surgery since his twentieth year. To leap from hospital to war was a bit on the unusual side, especially since he'd returned from his experience a full ranking Infantry Major. That was _seven steps_ of rank he'd managed to achieve in a very short time—even allowing for an automatic officer's commission for his skills in surgery. If Maiwand hadn't leveled his fortunes with a timber-saw, he no doubt would have remained in the military the rest of his life.

_He'd probably serve again if it were possible, too_. Lestrade thought back to that eerily ordinary-looking man. They'd underestimated him; _that_ was obvious. He'd placed his bet on Watson simply out of some misplaced sense of contrariness to balance out the careless judgment of his comrades. But he'd shown the stuff of his being during that wretched Hope case. Following Holmes quietly, keeping his distance, never speaking out of turn—his memory must be phenomenal, to string so many salient details of the crime into logical points. _Study in Scarlet_ progressed as naturally as beads on a string, and yet he didn't tell the story from the perspective of logic.

_He's a clever one_, Lestrade scowled to himself. _For the most part, quiet, producing manners when Holmes forgets his own, then jumping into action without a second to spare. If he hadn't put his part in with Hope, someone would have been sailing out that window! And then the look on his face when he put his hand on Hope's chest…_Lestrade hadn't expected to feel any of the softer emotions on Hope's behalf. But the look on Watson's face had drawn him close to it. Watson was a soldier who didn't hesitate, but he placed a high enough value on life to regret its impending loss.

_I can't **believe** he is rooming with Sherlock Holmes._ But for how much longer? It was a good thing his expenses were paid up for the month; Lestrade didn't hold hope that he'd win his five pounds back on the 30th.

Once home he paused and put his back against the door with a sigh of relief. The hubbub of London muffled against the walls, an underwater sound. He really lived a fair piece from Number Four Whitehall, but the rooms were too decent to give up. He had his bedroom plus a single room for his study, and Mrs. Collins, the greatest landlady in London, not only left dinner out for him, she made certain he was not disturbed by his neighbors. A shame no one ever thought of recruiting feisty old widows for law enforcement. Then again, her stern moral vertebrae probably _prevented_ more up and coming young careers in mischief than he would ever arrest.

No evening for Grozet; he told himself wanting that small amount every evening did not mean he was an addict. It was just a comfortable ritual he had fallen into.

The Inspector groaned to himself and pulled his shoes off, replacing them with his indoor shoes (slippers were for people who never thought they could be called out of the house at a second's notice). One more hour and he would have been wearing blisters, he was certain. Off went his jacket and loose went the tie. His collar, stiff with starch that morning, was now stiff with sweat and soot. He pulled it off with a shudder of relief and let it join the growing pile of the week's wash.

All right. Now that Gregson wasn't around to prod his conscience—Lestrade could not bring himself to agree to _anything_ that fat-handed, flaxen-haired man said or did—he could do a little detective work on his own. It wasn't as though it would be the first time he'd brought his work home.

And it wouldn't be difficult to get all the back copies. Mrs. Collins _never_ missed an issue of the _Strand_.

Some minutes later he was ensconced in his study with a pot of near-boiling cockaleekie and bread cooling by increments at the one window. Mrs. Collins' ratter trotted in, found no rodents for killing, and settled down on top of his feet with a self-important sigh. Lestrade automatically moved the small stack of _Strand_ issues out of the terrier's way as he lit a cigarette. At his wrist was a pad of paper and several pencils. _Time to get to it. Watson himself admitted I took accurate notes. We'll see if he has cause to rue that observation. _

1) Sherlock Holmes

2) Dr. Watson

3) T.G.

4) G.L.

Less than an hour and three sheets of foolscap later, Lestrade had come to the following realizations:

Sherlock Holmes was written about, for good or ill, more than anyone else.Sherlock Holmes had by far the longest and most elaborate list of sins to match up with his good qualities.Scotland Yard detectives were portrayed as petty and jealous at their worst, but that didn't exactly compare to the mental image of a grown adult sulking in a chair wreathed in tobacco smoke and complaining about bizarre mental faculties.If anyone doubted Holmes' mental balance was out of true, they'd just have to read this out and see for themselves. His destiny was clearly written on the madhouse walls.Mrs. Hudson must be getting more than the usual rent on her new lodgers. Sherlock Holmes was without a doubt the worst roommate on God's Grey Earth.

That last point went far in re-establishing some of Lestrade's original sense of sympathy for the doctor. He could well imagine the spiritual and psychic agony of being forced to invalid inaction in a small room with a man who _scraped his bow across his violin_—a perfectly good Strad—as he thought.

Absurdly, the whole situation reminded him of a Fallen Woman who had stampeded into the Yard some time ago, demanding they do something about a non-paying customer: "Better an empty room than a bad tenant, luv!" She'd said, just in time to prostrate the newest boy in the station.

Himself and Gregson was a bit tougher, but Watson seemed to have made even points with them. For everything disparaging against them (and the Yard) Holmes would slip some inadvertent comment that could be taken as back-handed praise. _I wonder if Holmes was educated by nuns_…the thought was an attractive one.

Finally, as supper steamed to a palatable level, he figured out some of what was bothering him. It was Watson's own self-portrayal. Lestrade easily recalled his experience with the man, and while he couldn't _sense_ the doctor was lying about himself, there was still something greatly off-tune about it.

_The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster._

_Now Why_ did that statement strike off? Lestrade scowled, trying to reconcile that compound sentence with his impression of the man. Granted, he didn't really know the man outside of that first meeting, and then there was the actual case, but…

_But I wasn't paying attention to him, _Lestrade's abashed enlightenment went down about as well as a mouthful of spoiled Darjeeling._ I was only watching Holmes. So was Gregson. Watson barely existed when we were talking…_

_Sloppy detective work._

Lestrade tapped his way down the list.

_"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend remarked; "he and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but conventional -- shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent."_

No, that wasn't flattering by a long chalk, but the implications did not escape Lestrade—at least not this time. Holmes was dead-on accurate, and Watson recorded it neatly.

_The pick of a bad lot_. There were good men, outside the usual rings of corruption, but they were a bad lot. Their results proved it.

Lestrade's head throbbed. It was actually a pleasant change from that feeling in his gut.

_Holmes is portrayed by Holmes' own words, and by his room-mate's own words. I swear, I never thought of Holmes being vain, but he has the right of it. He's also right that Holmes has mixed feelings about notoriety_.

_And Watson…_

_Watson writes from the perspective of a ghost. That is **strange**._

For some minutes, Lestrade pondered the list he'd written out, his pencil tapping on the paper. Solutions failed to come. There were too many pieces left separate, like looking at a jigsaw puzzle badly scattered and trying to see the theme of the assembled piece.

Finally, he got up and made his way to the kitchen for something to drink with the soup. But first…

Lestrade put his pencil to the calendar. "_Today Gregson learned what speechless felt like."_


	3. Chapter 3

A Study in Brown

Truth is the Critic, Part Three: Speaking With a Ghost

Lestrade took his holiday with mixed feelings. The Yard was still up in arms—and when was it not--although not for the usual reasons involving crime, malcontents, public disturbances and that extremely large but well-used category known as "vice." A three-day weekend meant one thing to Lestrade's mind. Rest. After weeks of forcing himself into a degree of physical action to make up for fever, he could finally lie down and sleep until his own body wanted to wake up.

His plan worked until two cab drivers decided to quarrel over the same fare at the top of their lungs. Lestrade fumbled for his watch and blearily peered at the numbers. Finally, he closed one eye and could focus on the facing. It was a trick that worked when strong drink kept him from focusing well. _9 am_. He groaned and pulled the covers off his shoulders.

The air was warm but Lestrade knew better than to trust it. The smell of the Thames echoed the movements of the weather over the water. It would not be a perfect day forever. He pulled on his heavier coat but left it open for the sun and yawned his way down the street. Street urchins scattered like quail, but he ignored them, knowing the lot from Paddington Street was fairly well-behaved—at least they were to him. There were several streets where his small size translated to "fair game" to the future dissatisfied residents of London.

"Morning, Inspector!" Constable Perkins lifted a hand the size of a coracle paddle in greeting. Lestrade was amused to note that while the Paddington urchins flew before him like small insects, they flowed around Perkins as though the policeman was a large and rather tough boulder. "Are you headed to St. Bart's then?"

Lestrade slowed in his step, hands in his pockets (he was off duty after all). "St. Bart's?" He repeated slowly. "I wasn't planning on it. Why, is something happening?_ If Holmes is trying to tattoo the corpses again, I don't want to know about it…_

Perkins blanched. "I'm sorry, sir, I thought someone would have let you know." Up close the dark smears of sleeplessness were clear under his pale blue eyes. "Constable Lions was injured in the line of duty."

"Lions?" Lestrade sucked in his breath. Lions had been assisting Bradstreet on a notorious baby-farm practice.

"Yes, sir. They were storming the building where the bodies were bein' hid, sir, and it was quite old and run-down. Lions was the last in line; they think his weight was what did it after everyone else's, and he went right through, into that wretched basement. Cut himself open on a broken billhook, sir. Doctors aren't sure if he'll have the use of his leg back."

Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment. Lions was young but cool-headed. He was calmer than even many of the old-timers at the Yard. He did not know if the man could face debility with the same attitude. "Thank you for telling me, Constable." Lestrade said finally. "I'll pass on to him that you were concerned."

Perkins flushed, awkward from the praise. "Not at all, sir. We stick together in the Yard."

"Yes…" Lestrade thought of Gregson. "That we do, Constable."

Lestrade grabbed up a sausage roll from his landlady and as an afterthought, stuffed another into his coat. He ate the one on his way to St. Bart's, his mood not improved by the fate of another Constable.

Why didn't _Punch_ talk about how _dangerous_ it was to be a policeman? _Punch_ was popular because of its reputation for sticking to "inoffensive" material, but the truth was, there was no such thing as a gentle ribbing when it came to such a serious matter. Policemen, plain-clothed and uniformed, were at risk as soon as they stepped into the street, and that risk did not go away when they went home. They weren't paid enough to put up with half the lot they did, and on top of the people who were willfully trying to cause them harm, there was the problem of London itself.

London was not a safe place to live.

That great cesspool, Watson had called it. It certainly was. He shuddered to think of what would happen to that 'cesspool' analogy once the Thames started warming up and people conducted housecleaning on everything from garbage to dead animals and even the churches were known to toss unwanted bodies into the river to make room for the more affluent. The Wharves were pulsing, malignant organisms, and people disappeared every night—men, women and children. They also disappeared in both directions. Gregson was killing himself trying to prove the resurgence of the shanghai trade off the East side, but so far it was going no further than the slave market over on Bethnel Green.

Lestrade didn't bother with wondering at Lions' 'accident' as it was _no_ accident. Buildings that sheltered crime were deliberately kept squalid, and a bobby could face getting shot by a tripwire gun as fast as a bomb laced with poison.

Fifty years ago, entire portions of London had been populated with nothing but criminals. It had caused a level of crime to match the last time England had been invaded by the enemy. Those desperate hours had created Sir Peel's MPF, but the problem had only subverted, gone from brazen to subtle, controlled and intelligent. It had taken 7 years, and even the magistrates had held the Peelers in contempt, but they had _done the job_, and made Charing Cross safe.

Or as safe as any part of London.

No, there was precious little in the way of assistance for the police. If there was, they wouldn't have to resort to consulting with people like Holmes.

_And he __**does**__ help, but __**God**__ he is arrogant about it!_ Lestrade caught himself fuming, and controlled it with a grimace. Enough. He would be visiting a comrade. Lions was married, wasn't he. Lestrade turned the possibility over in his mind. His wife—Elsa—she'd be worried

St. Bart's had been in practice since around 1137, but they did keep their hand in the common matters. Lestrade doubted a single family who claimed linage that far back would be so friendly. He passed a placard in the hallway advertising the local clinics throughout London and the purpose of each—he almost stumbled in his tracks when he saw the card read "If you cannot read this, ask someone on duty to read it for you." It left him a shade more disillusion than he'd woken with that day.

Constable Lions was a fairly big man—should he survive to become a plainclothes Inspector he'd make a formidable figure. The loss of blood made his skin very white as he sat propped up with a newspaper, and he looked up with surprised pleasure at another visitor.

"Well, good-morning, Inspector. I hope you aren't here to convalesce too."

"Not at all." Lestrade shook his head at the lump under the blanket. There were obviously a great many bandages underneath the left leg. "But I'm surprised they put you in a room all to yourself. Have you been promoted?"

Lions blushed with chagrin. "Not at all, sir. It's just that several of the doctors, well…there was a bit of a fuss over me when I came in, and I suppose you could say there was a fight."

"A fight?" Lestrade pulled his coat off and sank into the one chair—obviously brought in for the consulters. "What kind of fight would that be?"

"I'm not really sure, sir. Except I don't mind telling you I'm never playing a game of tug o' war at the family reunions ever again. I know what the rope feels like now." Lions blushed even further. "There was this new doctor, fresh out of surgery from somewhere, trying to say my leg would have to come off. Then this second doctor, he comes in and he's younger than the first one, and he says bloody hell no one's getting amputated on my watch, and they started shouting in the hallways—oh, thank you, sir." Lions took Lestrade's offer of a sausage roll with relish.

"Go on, lad, you seem to have had a much more engrossing night than I did." Lestrade leaned forward on his knees. "I take it the argument was resolved for the best?"

Lions chewed and swallowed. "Not in so many words, sir. A new'un came in off the street, still in his walking-clothes and his stick, and took a look at the two fighting, and the mess I was making on the floor, and sent me to the back surgery." Lions suddenly guffawed. "Wish I knew what they looked like when they saw their prize plum had left!"

Lestrade breathed out. "But your leg will be fine?"

"Oh, yes sir. Right as rain, 'e said." Lions started to lift the sheet to show Lestrade, but the smaller man hurriedly declined the invitation. "At any rate, he even let me watch as he sewed me up. That was right decent of him, I have to allow."

Lestrade did not share that kind of sentiment. "I'm pleased for your peace of mind, Lions. I didn't think surgeons would release their jealousy long enough to let us laymen in on their trade secrets."

"Oh, this un, he's a real bene, sir. Soldier, like. Didn't believe in treatin' a grown man like a kitten." Lions was half finished with his meal by now. "Said he had a lot of practice back in the war."

"Did he now." Lestrade felt his brow go up. "By any chance, would you recall his name?"

Lions shook his head. "Never gave it, sir. He was mostly asking me the questions." Another chew and swallow while Lestrade idly calculated probabilities. "Nothin out of the ordinary about him, though. No distinguishin' characteristics."

Lestrade felt his other eyebrow slide up. "Now, come on, Lions. Everyone has a distinguishing characteristic or three."

Lions looked doubtful. "Well, nothing that couldn't be proven, sir." He gave the bewildering information. "I mean, he was limping pretty hard on his right side, and his left shoulder was stiff, but you know, that doesn't mean he's injured there."

"Ah, well…you're right about that. But surely you have some way of describing him."

Lions shrugged. "'E could have been any man off the street. Awful thin, though. Didn't look natcheral on him."

Lestrade bade Lions goodbye, rubbing his chin as he did so. A nurse was flagged down without trouble, and a few polite questions under a patently false pretense sent him outside to the small walking-trod the convalescing public was permitted to take.

He found his quarry down on one knee lifting a small object off the ground for the benefit of a knot of boys that had the hardened look of the Bow Street gang. The nearest boy took whatever it was he was passing on, and the ragtag children fled like chickens at the sight of the grain pail. Then he rose to his feet, and his lack of balance momentarily surprised the Inspector. Watson needed every inch of the walking stick he carried.

_A STUDY IN SCARLET_ came to his mind: Watson had admitted he could only travel outside in the best of weather. That weather was passing. Clouds were pulling over what little could be seen of the sky. It was a long walk from Baker Street.

He'd gone from being all shades of brown to brown and white; his face matched his shirtcollar and made his dark eyes even starker. With excruciating slowness he sank down into the nearest bench with his bad leg stiff and straight. For a moment he leaned on the end of his cane, head hanging down.

Lestrade frowned to himself, uneasy about walking in on such a moment, and also because something niggled at his brain, something he was watching that didn't quite fit. He stayed where he was for the nonce, waiting for the incongruity to reveal itself to him.

It was not immediately forthcoming. Watson's tired reverie was interrupted by some expected company; four dirty ragamuffins dressed far too thickly for the weather clustered up to the doctor, pelting him with questions in piping voices that Lestrade couldn't make heads or tails of—although he was fairly certain not all the words were in English. They were calling him 'Crow' which was the street word for a doctor, but Watson seemed unable or unaware he could take offense at the word.

Watson lifted his head slowly and smiled with the patience of a man who has had to endure younger and noisier humans all his life. To their questions he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown paper sack, folded neatly and tied off with string.

"All right, no glocky fanning, now." Watson said patiently and the smallest boy jerked his hand back from his discreet search for valuables on the doctor's clothing. "Which of you is good with numbers?" He demanded. Clearly, everyone felt they were. "Well, then, you need four drops per pound of water. Who knows how much that is?" He shook his head at their sudden hush. "A pint is a pound the world around, lads. Say it for me."

"A pint is a pound the world around!"

"Very good. Now you know what happens if you take more than a pint of this a day?"

"It undoos all the good."

"It will _undo_ all the good." Watson corrected without rancor. _Definitely __**not**__ brought up in a Catholic school_, Lestrade thought.

"Is this enough for Mum?" The oldest asked him in a tone of voice that sounded a bit belligerent to the Inspector's mind.

"It's enough for _all_ your family, and I suggest you run it home and start mixing it." Watson leveled his finger at the boy's face. "Send for me if there's no improvement by tomorrow morning."

There was no thank you, no comment to say they'd heard; the doctor was suddenly alone at his bench and rubbing his leg with an impatient scowl while two men with an all too-familiar stamp on their features swaggered up to him. Lestrade felt his inner voice groan as he calculated just how close they were to the outer district of the opium dens.

"Spare a bit of soft, gov'nor?"1

Watson lifted his head slowly, as if the notice of his incoming roll was just beyond his abilities. "I beg your pardon?" He asked politely.

Oh, now, _that_ was enough. Lestrade couldn't be an accessory to murder—or even a toff-rolling. He began looking for a way he could discreetly sneak up without being seen until it was too late. There was always the chance Watson could handle this by himself. He didn't seem surprised by his new guests…

"Saw you dispensin' charity among the poor there." The larger of the men—wasn't it usually that way—was smirking. The smaller man looked lighter and quicker—he might even be the leader, using his friend as a diversion. "And we were next in line, as it were."

"Charlie, you'll get no more than a few shillings." That eyebrow went up again as that voice dropped to the dry note Lestrade remembered. "And I'm afraid it won't look too well for you the next time you go to the clinic, Carl."

"We'll just have to live with that, won't we."

Lestrade was stamping out just as Watson's cane touched the first man's sternum. He barely seemed to tap him, but the thug stopped dead in his tracks just as he was closing his hand over the doctor's shoulder.

As soon as his fingers touched him there, something flitted across Watson's face like black lightning. He rose up, weight favoring his better leg, and his opposing arm lifted. Lestrade saw the flash of gnashed white teeth in a white face with dark eyes and a terrific impact sent the would-be assailant on a short journey through the air. The standing man backed away, kneeling down to his comrade's side in a show of loyalty—the only admirable thing about him Lestrade had seen.

"I'm not sure you need me, doctor."

Watson whirled, his face open to Lestrade's and for a moment it was a terrible thing, like a violent wave cresting. Just before it could crash, the look was smoothed over and replaced by tired regret.

"I know them." He said softly. "When the hunger for their drug comes, they'd commit whatever crime is required."

"Aye, I recognize the species." Lestrade agreed. A single glare was enough to freeze the would-be thieves. "You aren't going to go anywhere, are you? Thought not." He pulled out his police whistle and blew; Watson flinched at each blast but held himself in check very well.

"You might as well sit down, doctor. It can wait until the bobbies get here. This is Holder's beat; he won't be long."

"Holder," Watson breathed out slowly, collecting his nerve. "Didn't he play cricket at one time?"

"The very same." Lestrade was surprised. "Do you play cricket?"

"At one time I did." Watson passed a gallows-grin to the smaller man. "But I gave it all up for rugby."

Lestrade forced his embarrassment down his throat. If Watson was looking for pity he would have done so in better ways. As it was, Lestrade sensed the doctor was just stating a fact because he was trying to face a bitter truth about himself.

And at that moment, the puzzle pieces that were Watson jigsawed together with a sharp _click_ in Lestrade's mind.

Watson wrote about himself in a strange, distant and objective manner in the details of his past. He ironically seemed _more_ alive pre-London than he did _in_ it. In the present, he was showing himself as someone who was struggling and failing to understand the genius of his flatmate. He concentrated on his failure to comprehend that mind—a struggle everyone at the Yard could sympathize with utterly. Watson might describe others in unflatteringly honest lights, but those were outside observations, notes on how people were behaving, talking, and how they projected themselves. When it came to the _inward_ rationale, he kept the frustrations, the inadequacies, and the incomprehension in his own viewpoint…and thus, was hardest on himself.

"_The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster."_

Watson was in transit between the young man who had been in the prime of his life and fortune, and the shattered, useless soldier who somehow survived Maiwand. Instead of serving the Crown he was now dependent on Her benefice. The two ill-matched facets had not yet melded. It all fit on him like a shoe that hadn't been broken in. He was a stranger to himself. _I had neither kith nor kin in England…_

…_be it remembered how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence_.

The man was trapped inside his lodgings more days than not with no one to see day in and out but that half-mad detective.

_Oh, my God. He __**is**__ a ghost. He doesn't see himself as real yet. __**That's**__ why he writes the way he does. That's why Holmes' attitude doesn't really bother him. It's the admitting that he exists at all that's important!_

Lestrade kept his composure cool on the outside of this face for the longest three seconds of his life as he and Watson regarded each other with polite masks of civility.

_And he is right. We don't give Holmes the credit. It's our habit. We've convinced ourselves it's our right because it's our careers, and we put our lives on the line every day, and that gives us our sense of entitlement. We want our merits to prove our worth, but how does a private consulting detective prove his worth?_

_Holmes puts himself at risk too…just not as often as we do. But either way, dead is dead._

Lestrade found himself wondering what Holmes thought of Watson. If there was a god, perhaps he simply thought of him as no worse than the other mere mortals in his life. Hopefully no less.

"His name is Carl Masters." Watson cleared his throat. "The other fellow is his brother in law, Charlie Woods. They are both opium addicts." The doctor leaned on his stick, a peculiar mix of emotions on his face. "Carl has cancer of the lymph nodes. He does not have long to live." Carl was groaning; Lestrade discreetly stepped on his right forearm to prevent any further mischief. Watson was looking at them the same way he had looked upon big, dangerous Jefferson Hope.

"Dr. Watson…are you sorry for them? They could have cracked your skull easy as glass."

Watson blinked as if puzzled at the question. "No." He said simply. "But, I regret what led to this."

Lestrade wasn't certain he understood, but unless he was wrong, Watson could be trusted as a man who would not fight just for the sake of fighting.

"Well." There was a slight awkward silence. Lestrade put his hands in his pockets. "So tell me." He cleared his throat. "and be honest now."

Watson tilted his head to one side, curious without apology. "Yes?"

"Now t

hat I've gained back four pounds, do I still look sallow and rat-faced?"

"Oh, no." Watson's lips twitched. "Recall that I soon promoted you to lean and ferrety. Finish gaining the rest of your weight back, and you'll be sleek and satisfied."

"What about Gregson?"

"Gregson doesn't need to gain any more weight." Watson made a face at the thought. "But if he does, the rest of him will catch up with his hands."

Lestrade thought his holiday was looking much brighter.

1 Soft. Paper money


End file.
